


Nighttime Sharpens

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, F/M, Flashbacks, Nightmares, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8726968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: After the end Raoul and Christine are both haunted by all that happened, but at least they have each other.





	

He wakes nights with the water above his head, his lungs burning for air, and it is only when his heart rate settles that he realises he is not drowning, that he is, in fact, _safe_ in Christine’s arms. She does not shush him, lets him whimper on, instead whispers soft, soothing words in French, or Swedish. No matter the language the words wrap themselves around his heart, sooth his exhausted nerves, and when he is back to himself, wholly so, he kisses her, and wipes the tears from her own eyes.

He wakes nights in a sweat, the African sun beating down on him and his own face reflected back from a hundred panels beside the steel tree, the noose dangling, waiting. She strokes his hair, and mops the sweat from off his brow, and squeezes his fingers tight. The night air is cool on his cheek from the open window, and when his breath settles, his body loses its tension, he takes her in his arms, and kisses her hair, and she nuzzles in close. He brought these things on himself, he knows, but it was right to do so. It had to be done, even if-Even if-

He wakes nights with his brother’s body heavy in his arms, the blue eyes so like his own staring past him. And Phillippe was never a heavy man, always bordered on being too thin, but with waterlogged clothes it is all he can do to support him, and his fingers scrabble at his throat, searching for the beat that should be there and find only wet skin, and stillness. (He was pulled from the water long before he was found, was long dried-out before anyone saw him, and he did not see him, could not see him, not in the rush to take Christine and get to safety, but his mind has always been too active, conjures these things to torment him so.) He knows the dreams are only dreams, knows they are truthful nonetheless and even hazy with sleep and grief does not question them, but Christine cradles him close and rocks him as if he were a child, and promises him that they’ll get through, that she’ll be there, even as his tears soak her nightdress.

He wakes nights and it is _her_ that is whimpering, _her_ that is tossing, her sweat-soaked hair plastered to her forehead. He does not ask what it is she sees, knows she is reluctant to speak of it. Is it the wedding dress, and blazing yellow eyes demanding? Does she hear the echoes of a voice extinguished, the words not real, not here, not anymore? Is that face, that grotesque face, slack and pale in death, his hand cradled in hers? He does not ask, sees enough reflected in her eyes, and simply cradles her close until her tears have dried, wishing that he was enough to take her pain away.

(This is how she feels, surely, when he is the one who wakes. Helpless, and aching and desperate to do something to obliterate those images, those memories.)

They wake nights together, in each other’s arms, fingers stroking and lips seeking, and, coming down from their pleasure, wish that they did not have to wake the other nights.


End file.
